Bitter Buttons
by OceanAngle21
Summary: If she'd been able to, she almost would have laughed. But now, her senses were fading out; a heavy fog was invading her brain; and she sank deeper, deeper, falling off the edge of the world. A reinterpretation of Patrick O'Brien's short story "Samphire".


**Golden Buttons**

His voice rang merrily through the house - ambient noise; she had long since learned not to listen. She shivered in the cold - the radiator was to be left off during the daylight hours from June until September, that was the rule - and pulled the collar of her coat higher.

'...shouldn't be _too _long, really, there's work to be done and all that... but where's my walking stick, Molly, have you seen it? It simply wouldn't be a _proper_ ramble without my stick, now, would it? We _always_ take that stick on walks, don't we, ever since we bought it from that sweet little shop, don't you remember. You _do_ remember, don't you? He seemed a nice chap, _I_ thought, but he charged me full price in the end _anyway_, didn't he...'

She could hear him clattering about in the hall, rummaging around in the umbrella stand. She shivered again. He was going straight to his work again once they came back; she would be the one in the kitchen. Perhaps, just perhaps, he wouldn't notice... she reached out her hand, breath catching -

The door swung open just as she touched the knob on the radiator. '...all set, and just on time too, don't you think... oh, fixing the radiator?' He smiled broadly, and she withdrew her hand as though the knob had bitten her, cheeks burning. He leaned the walking stick against the wall as he sprang up to the radiator, gently pushing her aside and adjusting it himself. 'Been a bit stuffy in the evenings, hasn't it? You, we ought...'

Molly's heart sank, and her mind wandered.

The air was freezing, and dry in a way that seemed to penetrate the flesh. She stopped moving for a moment as the chill seemed to smack into her skin, and for an instant her breath stopped seemingly of its own accord; but the shock passed as the cold settled into her body, and together they set off, her husband not having noticed anything out of the ordinary.

The ground was firm, but coated in a thin, slick layer of mud. Her stomach clenched inside of her as she trod stiffly along. He, however, strolled buoyantly alongside her, babbling excitedly as he pointed out various sights with his stick. By the path was a dried riverbed, overgrown with bushes, weeds, bracken and moss; often, he would have to point from afar at some variation of fern or another. _Lovely_, he would say quite often, or _unique_ or _an excellent specimen_. Of course, it was also such a good day for a walk as well, such ideal conditions, wasn't it? Having just rained, all of the plants would be basking in the aftermath of their slaked thirst, all of the works and beetles and other crawling creatures would be out and about, and all the tracks from the larger sorts of animals would be fresh and clear in the mud. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt and dropped to a squat, gesturing enthusiastically at something in the mud. 'Look, Molly, look, just under the thistle, these are fox tracks, aren't they? See, just there - definitely a fox, no doubt about it, from the shape of those toes. Isn't that simply terrific? You wouldn't expect to see _that_ on ramble, normally, would you? _Fox_ tracks, Molly, I'm sure of it - not like those tracks from next doors' dog that we saw last time – '

He went on talking, and beamed when she praised him with a weak smile and feigned interest. They carried on along the dirt path, him now swinging his walking stick around cheerily.

'…mustn't be _too_ long, of course, as I said… we wouldn't want to be late, of course, would we?' he was saying. 'We really _must_ watch the time, it's a good thing I thought to buy us those handy little wristwatches. _Haven't_ they been handy? Not terribly "in vogue", as they might say, but no matter, no matter… _do_ hurry up, there, dear…'

The air was stiff – thick with an impending storm. There were hours yet to pass before it would begin, so for now there was just the dull and ashen sky and that wicked, wicked cold. He continued on about the wristwatches, oblivious to his wife's violent shivering, her stony and wide-eyed expression. Quite handy, those watches, although somewhat bulky for complete convenience. Perhaps in a few years there would be better ones made. Of course, they would have to sell theirs first; that way, they could minimise their total money loss, and perhaps if they were to wait a little longer, the old watches would gain value. Then, without warning, the ground shot out from under Molly's feet; the world rushed into sharp focus; and for a horrible instant, she was falling, falling –

'Whoa there!' laughed her husband. She was rigid, halfway to the muddy ground; one hand held the low branch that she had caught in a vice-like grip, her knuckles white. The waves of shock that were still surging up and down her body gradually dissipated, and slowly, cheeks burning, she pulled herself upright, the muscles in her arms shaking with the effort. There he stood with an amused smile on his face, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder once she had straightened up, giving it a quick squeeze. 'Best be more careful on that mud, eh, Molly?' She withdrew quickly, her face still hot with shock and shame. The fall had been fleeting, but it just went to show that they ought to be cautious what with that mud, of course. The recent rain didn't only bring out the best of the flora and fauna – it also brought out the danger in those earth paths, didn't it? A double-edged deal, wasn't it?

A frigid breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. The dull pewter sky began to stir, and the dry air stung his exposed lips and fingers, chapped her skin. Although none out of doors would have been able to see the sun slowly sinking down from its peak in the sky, the afternoon was wearing on. He was becoming somewhat anxious about the time.

'We mustn't be late this afternoon, you see, Molly,' he told her nervously. 'We may not be able to see the full route today, you see, because we simply mustn't be late. We mustn't, because on this new schedule we absolutely _must_ stick to the proper time frames for all of our engagements and activities, otherwise it shall soon fall apart. Unless we exercise the _proper_ discipline, we simply shan't be able to keep to our schedule, and then things would be left undone, and where would we be?' This new schedule, he explained, was very tediously thought-out and planned so that he would be able to finish all of his work and she all of her house chores at appropriate times during the day, so that for example he would never in the middle of a pressing telephone call when she was finished preparing dinner, and she would not have to dust before he was done rearranging his papers. Not to mention, as a treat, she had an allocated time to bathe tonight, and if they saved on the radiator bills he might consider allowing _four_ baths per week. Of course, it might seem trivial to others, but what did that matter when their days would be spent efficiently? What would others be saying when they sat down to their leisure time, only to find that they couldn't plan a weekend away because their ironing had been abandoned in lieu of breakfast? It was all in the scheduling, wasn't it, all in the scheduling. Feeling very pleased with himself, he fell silent, reflecting on the invention of this clever time management.

His nose had begun to redden in the cold, but his silly smile did not falter. Wasn't it sweet, walking along like this, alone together with no one around but the plants and the animals? He slipped an arm around her shoulders, not noticing the way she stiffened at his touch, and began to speak with a different voice entirely. He whispered to her of the privacy of nature, of the fact that nobody was watching them, all the way out here, of how they were completely alone; the world and its people need not exist, for now it was just Molly and Lacey, just the two of them… and a mounting tightness gathered in her chest, but she said nothing. Eventually, he took his arm away and returned to his previous place a half-pace ahead of her, the privacy of nature forgotten – or perhaps simply put aside for the time being.

When they reached the turning point and began to set off once again in the opposite direction, the breezes had picked up. They were gentle, but glacial in temperature; they seemed to blow straight through the coats and scarves and find their way to skin, determined to chill the unfortunate two. He tried to make a joke of it, waiting for her response, but when it did not come he fell silent once more. They walked quietly for a while, all of the plants having already been pointed out and explained; and it was a considerable time later before he suddenly stopped and cried out excitedly.

'Tansy - look, Molly, look!' he exclaimed, gesturing with the stick towards the mess of plants in the dry riverbed. She followed his gaze impassively, but couldn't see what he was trying to show her. This stretch of the river seemed to her to be unremarkable in its plants; she could see nothing unusual.

'_Tansy_, Molly, tansy,' he persisted impatiently. 'Look – those flowers there? Bitter buttons, they call them, or golden buttons, but that's tansy, that is…' Sure enough, looking closely, she could make out a hint of yellow in between ferns.

'Oh, dear. Oh, dear,' he was saying. 'We shouldn't stop, should we? Such little time left – but – oh, please, Molly, shouldn't I go and take a look?' She gazed at him dumbly, her face blank. That her husband seemed to be asking _her_ permission to go out of their way seemed, for a moment, strange – before he took up his stick and began scrambling up the slight incline to the edge of the ditch. His feet made smacking noises as they struck the mud, one after the other; for one terrible instant he appeared to have lost his balance and was slipping backwards, but he deftly thrust out the walking stick and caught onto the stiff lower branches of a crooked tree growing on the bank. In another moment, he was up, standing proudly on the edge of the slide with a silly grin on his face. _Look_ at it, right up close, there – on the opposite bank of the narrow river, _so_ close, and that crooked tree grew right across the ditch…

Before his wife could see what he was doing, he had tucked the stick under his arm and was rolling up his sleeves. As he began to clamber onto the long, thick branch hanging over the riverbed, her eyes widened – her muscles seemed to be paralysed, petrified by fear – and _there he was_, climbing along the warped trunk, gripped by the impulse. It only took a few seconds before he wavered, and it suddenly occurred to him exactly what he had done. Terrified, he turned around to look back at Molly. She only caught one glimpse of his face – eyes wide as saucers, mouth open in a startled O, just about to speak – before he overbalanced, and tumbled off of the branch in a rush of rustling leaves and tearing clothing.

The initial plunge downward seemed to rob him of his throat, tearing out any breath in his lungs in a strangled, gasping shriek that seemed to go on even after he could no longer breathe. A thousand tiny stinging cuts tore through his skin as he fell through the bushes and the weeds – a loud _crack_ rang out as the walking stick struck a rock and splintered – there was a horrible ripping sound as one leafless branch tore through his jacket sleeve, grazing his arm angrily – and then he twisted, and his entire body seemed to catch fire; in the centre of his spine, something had _snapped_, something was terribly, horribly wrong, and the screaming pain flooded through him. When he at last hit the floor of the gully, the blunt shock reverberated through his frame, crystallising the pain emanating from his back and giving his skull a sickening jolt as it smacked into hard-packed earth, hot blood spreading out underneath his head. There was a moment of blankness, of blind pain, before thought rushed back into his brain, and the terrible realisation of what had happened.

Molly stood rooted to the spot, eyes so wide that they stung in the cold, unable to move. Every muscle in her body seemed to be frozen while an overwhelming, metallic nausea coursed through her veins. There was silence for a few moments, and then – there. Coming from the bottom of the ditch, barely audible but unmistakable, was a strangled, breathy moan. Her stomach clenched. Trembling, she craned her neck, took one tiny step, two… until she was at the edge of the riverbed, tightly gripping a tree branch to support herself, peering downwards, and through the tangle of bracken and branches she could just barely see it – the sleeve of his jacket, torn, dirt-streaked and – _yes_ – barely covering her husband's twitching fingertips. She remained frozen, staring down at those fingers, for what seemed like an eternity but could easily have been a matter of seconds; until suddenly –

'Mo_-Molly_…'

There was a sharp intake of breath; the knuckles of the hand clutching the branch turned white.

'Molly… hel- help…'

Another groan from down below, followed by coughing and spluttering. '_Molly_,' he gasped. 'Get – help…'

_We mustn't be late this afternoon._

Muffled, wheezing moans, and her legs trembled so hard she could barely stand up…

_Best hurry - we must be home on time._

His pleas were half-formed, almost unintelligible, except for the clear message – clear to any human being, whether they understood his words or not – of pain, a cry for help. It crossed her mind abstractly that, out here in this 'privacy of nature', should she leave him behind he would have absolutely no hope.

_And of course it's your night to bathe tonight, isn't it? We should hurry home, so as not to miss it, shouldn't we? _

She blinked slowly, her head spinning; and when she opened her eyes again, she saw not the broken man, lying at the bottom of a ditch, moaning in agony, but instead a different sort of man – one furious and confused and frightened all at once, waving his arms about, still white with the shock of what he could not quite believe had happened to him, citing those old, old words: _Love, honour, obey._

_Hurry up, dear. It's time to head home._

Although she had been painfully aware, before, of the soft mud beneath her feet as she traipsed along the path, now she barely took notice of it. Her body was almost numb; it was as though she was floating, her legs moving of their own accord, walking back along the path, away from the river, away from her dying husband. As she walked, the nausea began to set in; first in her choked throat, then spreading to her heart, her stomach – and then _lower_, bringing back memories, almost forgotten memories of disappointment and shame, of that other loss of life, no longer ever spoken of… she swallowed hard. The sky began to swirl, then to churn, and she carried on walking unfeelingly, unthinkingly. The first few drops of rain began to fall.

_You can have a bath tonight._

The door had been left open. For all of his fuss about precision, he had forgotten to lock the door. She fumbled with the doorknob, numb fingers scrabbling fruitlessly at the cold metal, but when the door was finally open she had no trouble shutting it behind her with a _click_, rushing up, opening the other door and turning the taps. Time seemed to slow to a halt, all thought and feeling suspended by the sound of the rushing water. One hand curled instinctively over her lower belly, over the emptiness left behind from all those years ago; and then the steam was filling the room, and she was moving, climbing over the edge, sinking into the water… thought slowly returned, although it was still incomprehensible, a stream of consciousness and emotional non sequiturs, passing over the strange sensation of climbing into water fully clothed. _It should have hurt_ – that was all that ran through her brain while the water overcame her, deluging her eyes and nose, flooding her lungs. It should have hurt, shouldn't it?

If she had been able to, she almost would have laughed. But now, her senses were fading out; a heavy fog was invading her brain; and she sank deeper, deeper, falling off the edge of the world.


End file.
